


Choppy

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26327557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Connor cuts Hank’s beard.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 11
Kudos: 42





	Choppy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The second Hank’s head moves, Connor freezes, scissors wrenching away to be absolutely sure there are no accidents—unlike Connor, Hank’s skin can’t heal right back over. If Connor’s careless or miscalculates, Hank might actually _bleed_ , and the thirium packs tucked away in the closet won’t do them any good. Connor will have to lick the cut clean, perhaps apply a salve, smooth a bandaide over it and promise to take more care in the future. They’ve gone through the ritual several times, Connor tenderly taking care of his fragile human, but it’s always because of alcohol or clumsiness. It’s _never_ been because of Connor. It never will be. Connor waits until Hank’s nose has stopped wrinkling, and then he slowly brings the scissors back, resuming his meticulous ministrations. 

“Feels lopsided,” Hank grunts—more movement that gives Connor pause. Connor slips his free hand under Hank’s jaw and holds it closed—he’s told Hank eleven times to _stay still_. It’s no surprise that Hank hasn’t listened. Even though Connor’s installed a five-star grooming program and has followed it exactingly, he pulls back to double check his work. 

“It’s perfectly even.” His thumb presses against Hank’s chin, ruffling through the white-grey fuzz, but no matter how he musses it up, the cut still looks right to him. He shouldn’t be surprised that Hank disagrees. Hank’s disagreeable by default, something Connor indulges, because he loves this flawed human with every fiber of his being. He moves along the left side of Hank’s beard and continues the trim. 

Hank lets out a deep sigh but doesn’t argue again. When Connor deems it safe to relinquish his grip, he lets his hand trail down Hank’s stubble-ridden neck, resting at his chest—he’s still wearing what he wore to bed: a lose black shirt and boxers. The shirt’s open neckline dips low enough for Connor’s fingers to trace through the thick smattering of hair there, every bit as wiry and coarse as what grows along his chin. Connor idly grazes through it while he works—there’s something so _stimulating_ about the rough texture of Hank’s hair across his smooth silicone. Connor’s body is velvet-soft, but Hank’s _rough_ , and that never gets old to him. 

As the scissors move lower down Hank’s throat, Connor bends closer. They’re tucked in Hank’s bathroom, Hank perched on the closed toilet, both letting the stray hairs blow down Hank’s body and litter the tile floor—Connor will clean it up afterwards. He’ll clean _Hank_ up afterwards. He’ll climb into the shower with his partner and be sure that everything is perfect. 

In the meantime, he lets himself wander further down Hank’s body, until his hands reach the waistband of Hank’s beige boxers. He peels back the skin from his fingertips when he slides underneath Hank’s shirt, because he loves feeling Hank _raw_. Hank’s breath catches as Connor’s fingers toy with the tangled mat of hair beneath his navel. 

“You can shave there too, if you want,” Hank mutters. Connor’s thought about it. He’s thought of shaving Hank _everywhere_ : his broad chest, his sweaty back, his muscular thighs and the wild landscape around his impressive cock. They’ve grown close enough, developed enough trust, that Connor probably could make Hank as smooth as he is. But Connor didn’t fall for another android. He chose a human, with wrinkles and scars, bad morning breath and dandruff and everything else that comes with him. Connor wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Finished, he sets the scissors down on the rim of the tub. It requires sinking lower—he winds up on his knees, knelt between Hank’s spread legs, one hand now flattened against the bulge of Hank’s stomach with that gloriously thick hair scratching against his palm. Connor decides, “This will do.” And then he goes in for a sloppy kiss that makes Hank eagerly comply.


End file.
